Mother's Love
by Carbon65
Summary: It has been a year since he has been there and so many things have changed. Part II of the Warbler Chronicles sort of .


_A/N: This one shot relates is sort of a partial sequel to my story, Control. At the very least, it takes place in the summer, about 3 – 4 months after Control will end. There are a few references to the other story here, although it's not necessary to read. The main difference from cannon is that Sebastian is diabetic. This is written for __**Martina Malfoy Lastrange **__who just kept begging me to give Sebastian his Mama. French translations provided by the wonderful __**Lovely-Sweety**__, who answer all my ridiculous translation questions. But, dedication here definitely goes to my mom. Happy Mother's Day. I love you, even if things have changed._

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, the Dalton Academy Warblers, or Sebastian Smythe. If I did, there would be a lot more people shipping Troster._

* * *

"**A mother is not a person to lean on but a person to make leaning unnecessary"**  
**Dorthy Canfield**

The plane is crowded with tired, hungry, smelly, impatient people. As soon as the plane stops moving, in some cases before the captain has even turned off the fasten seatbelt sign, they are crowding into the narrow aisles. They're talking and jostling and gesticulating.

One passenger doesn't join in the antics. He is a handsome young man. He has retrieved his rough canvas rucksack from the seat in front of him; it's true, but mostly because his legs are long and cramped. He has one ear bud plugged into an MP3 player, and taps his foot imperceptivity to the music. To an outsider, it looks as though he doesn't care where he is, or that he is simply above the plebian antics of deplaning a 757.

The truth is that his stomach is percolating with nerves. He's not sure that he has made the right decision, coming all this way on his own. Coming back to this place. He focuses on the music, trying to break apart the cords and instrumentals into vocal parts. His headphones act the say way blinders do on a horse: keeping him focused and away from things, which will spook him. He spooks easily.

When the rows in front of him clear, he slides out and grabs his leather overnight bag. His legs buckle a little, protesting the six cramped hours across the Atlantic, but he limps quickly anyway.

Emerging from the jet bridge onto the terminal is like stepping from reality into a fairyland, or the transition from dreaming to waking. The world seems to swirl and echo. People of every size, shape, color and gender rush past in any manner of costume. Their individual conversations in a hundred languages are muted, but they bounce off the hard walls and floor to create a cacophony of noise. The terminal smells of fried food and alcohol and sweet pastries and sweat and, underneath it all, the chemical odor of bleach.

The boy steels himself, plastering a look of disinterest on his handsome face. His gaze slides through people as they pass him. He tells himself to ignore the disorder. He refuses to let his mind stray too far from the path it needs to follow to get him from the airplane to his final destination. If he did, his mind would become an overestimated three-year-old within minutes, and his body would be left to wander undirected through the chaos.

His first stop is the men's room. He locks himself into the one stall, and sits on the toilet for a moment. He takes care of some of the necessary functions his body decided to stop preforming, as well as some that it performs on its own all too frequently. He changes his shirt and his underwear, then gathers his things.

He washes his hands and face at the wall of public sinks, and studies himself in the mirror over the sink. His green eyes look either desperately sad, or tired. At least they don't look dead anymore. The skin beneath them is puffy from lack fo sleep and hydration during the flight. The slightest prickle of facial hair is showing on his upper lip. He has to keep clean shave for school, but here, he can choose. He's not sure what he will do. Cursory examination finished, he brushes his teeth.

He follows the sign in French and Universal Pictorial Language to the baggage claim, where he collects his large suitcase.

He walks purposefully to customs, and waits in line for the office to check his passport. He pulls out his ear buds as he approaches the head of the line.

"_Votre passeport s'il vous plait_," the woman behind in the booth asks him. It takes him a minute to realize what she is asking, and he hands over the documents. He wonders how he has forgotten the language so quickly. He spoke almost nothing else for nearly five yeas, and now, he can barely remember simple commands. Maybe he should have taken AP French instead of Latin. He manages to stumble through the conversation with the officer, and passes down the long hallway to freedom.

He scans the crowded arrivals lounge for his mother. It's a large room, but its crowded. Drivers in tailored black suits hold cream cards with names printed on them. Clumps of parents and children wait holding balloons and signs. A few teenagers hang in a corner, looking nervous and hungry.

Then, he sees her. He feels like someone has installed a magnet in him, and she is North. He hurries through the crowd.

"Hi, _Maman_," he says quietly in her ear, kissing her on both cheeks. Then, because he is part American too, he drops his bag and wraps her in his arms.

"Bastian!" She cries, happily, "_Mon chéri_!"

It feels wonderful to hug his mother, but it feels different. His mother is holding him tight, but she feels fragile, and small. When he left, he was too angry and hurt to hug her. But, if he had cared to, he could have looked her in eyes easily. Now, he can see the top of her head.

"Did you have a long flight?" She asks in French, taking his overnight bag. "Are you tired?"

He sighs. "Yes, but it's good to be … home." He uses the word loosely. Home is anywhere that he has a bed and can sleep. Sometimes, it's his father's house is home, now. Sometimes, it's his dorm room at Dalton. Sometimes, he doesn't think he has a home.

They drive back to his mother's apartment. He babbles, filling the silence and the absence with idyll chatter. He talks about teachers and classes. It is insubstantial fluff, but he clings to it, because this is supposed to be his mother, not some stranger who doesn't know his life.

They get back to the apartment, and he carries his bags to his room in two trips. He kisses his mother on the cheek again. It feels strange to bend down to do it. He wonders if it would feel strange if he'd been here while he was growing. Of course, if he'd stayed, he doesn't know if he'd be around at all.

He goes to sleep in his small bedroom. It was his sanctuary for so many years. But, it is different, now. Someone, probably his mother, has taken down the handful of photographs he pinned up, pretending he had friends. The prints from Gray's Anatomy are gone as well. His bookshelf has changed. International finance and European politics are slowly overtaking the brightly colored fantasy books in English and French.

He sleeps for a long time. At the very least, it's longer than his father would allow without demanding an explanation. His father seems to panic whenever he does something that's slightly dangerous. As though he can't be trusted to make his own decisions. Part of him is amazed his father let him come so far.

He wakes to an empty apartment. He can feel the quiet that tells him he is the only person there. And, even though the purpose of the visit is to see his mother, he relishes time alone. It has been so long since anyonelet him wake up in an empty house. He goes through his morning ablutions, enjoying the naked walk between bathroom and bedroom. He dresses, not too well, not too shabbily, then makes his way to the kitchen for breakfast.

He finds a note from his mother, saying she is at the market and will be back soon. The note also asks him to call his father. He thinks about pretending he can't understand the last part, scribbled in French.

He pushes off the unpleasant task by making breakfast. He doesn't normally eat, but his mother has no patience when he is hungry. For four years, they battled back and forth. Usually, she won out. But, that last morning here, the last time he was free in this country, he had managed to slip out early without eating any of the revolting toast. It's why the drugs hit his system so fast.

The conversation with his father is a short one. Yes, it's nice to see his mother. No, they haven't really done anything yet. He's still a bit jet lagged. Yes, as far as he can tell, everything survived the trip without a problem. Yes, the bubble wrap around the glass bottles was overkill. Yes, he's put things in the small refrigerator in the apartment. He hasn't, actually, but his father obsessed about things like temperature and medicine degrading in the heat. He can lie to his father by commission. Yes, he's being good, doing what he's supposed to do. Yes, he's happy. Another lie, but one that's ingrained: he still isn't sure he knows what happy means. Yes, he'll call soon.

His mother returns as he finished on skype, arms full of groceries and flowers. He helps her unload everything. Then, they sit together quietly at the table in the small breakfast alcove. She asks if he's eaten breakfast, and he says say. He can only lie to his mother by omission.

* * *

She goes to work on Tuesday, and leaves him alone. It's hard to find time off from the IMF, where she works. The world is in an economic crisis, and while his mother is not so naïve to imagine she, alone, can change the course of history, she works hard. She leaves no instructions for him, beyond that he call her if he will be late, and no demands on him. Her trust is invigorating. He scoops the pile of coins and bills off the table, along with her note, and shoves the key into the small bag he carries with his medicine, his track phone, a copy of his passport, and a book.

He walks through the streets, half tourist, half native. The language is coming back to him, slowly. He still stumbles, sometimes, but he understands most of what he reads and hears. It's only when he's tired or distracted that he can't follow.

He stops and buys a _une crèpe au sucre_, enjoying the break in his morning for sweetness. Both of is parents would probably be angry about this for their own reasons, but he's on his own. It feels good to be free.

The sweetness still tickling his lips and tongue, he makes his way to the large public park with its garden. His plan for the day is simple: he will find a bench by some fragrant tree and, just be. He likes beautiful things for no other reason than because they are beautiful. It's why he loves this city: it is one of the most beautiful in the world.

He settles onto a bench by a rose bush, and takes out his book. It has a brightly colored cover, and large print. It's not the sort of thing he reads anymore, but his mother was so pleased to give it to him, so pleased to have him reading in French, that he couldn't refuse her.

Over the top of his book, he sees a group of boys his age playing soccer. They're strangely familiar, the names and shapes. He knows he looks different, older. And, so do they. But, he fears they will still recognize him, and know him as Bastian the Freak. He keeps his nose in the book, even as the ball rolls over and hits his ankle.

"Pass it back," the boys call. So, he stands and gives it a good kick. He's a natural athlete, and has played pick up games before he was labeled as an outcast. He can direct the ball to fly, if he wants. He wants to today.

He boys are quiet for a moment after they get their ball back. The sounds of birds, and the distant rumble of traffic grow loud in his ears. He fears he has been discovered. Instead, they ask him to play. He slides his book into his bag, which he puts in the shade. His father will come across the Atlantic to kill him if he ruins his insulin by baking it in the sun. Then, he joins the game.

The boys run up and down the field, passing and shouting and shoving good-naturedly. They rib each other about mother's and sister's and girlfriends as the ball moves between players. It's a strange sort of banter, hearing the names of girls he went to school with as a child. He still thinks of them as children, not the leggy, confusing creatures with chests the boys are describing.

His team wins. He thanks them for the game, and collects his things. He is sweaty, and exhilarated. They tell him they play most Tuesday afternoons.

He walks home at a leisurely pace, enjoying the mix of architecture in the city around him. Someday, he might like to design houses.

The feeling hits him half way to his mother's apartment. He can feel the invisible tremors in his hands and knees. It will be a while before anyone else can see them, but they make him clumsy. His head aches, too, and his thoughts are dulled. It takes him a few minutes to realize what is happening. His father keeps him under tight enough control that the sensation is not unfamiliar, but it's hard to place in this context.

He ducks into a small shop on the corner, which sells bus passes and cigarettes and candy. He finds a small refrigerator with juice and soda. He pulls one out, takes it up to the counter. It is _un euro cinquante_. He didn't see the written numerical price, and now his sugar deprived brain can't make the connection between the words and coins. He dumps a handful on he counter. The proprietor gives him a disgusted look, and picks out what she needs, leaving him to collect the rest of his money and his drink.

Outside the shop, he leans against the building, and takes long fortifying gulps. His mother finds him there a few minutes later. She is coming home to surprise him for lunch, and from the look on her face, she fears she may have come too late. She leads him home, carefully. From the look on her face, he can tell she fears she has done wrong by leaving him alone for so long.

He wonders if she's worried about the morning, or the last year.

* * *

He falls apart one night. He thought that it wouldn't follow him here. That maybe, if he tried hard enough and was good enough, it would stop following him at all.

But, his stomach churns and he can feel the blurring at the edge of his mind. He barely makes it through dinner, before racing to his room to hide. He curls up on the bed, and rocks back and forth, back and forth. All the bad things he's said and done flood in. All his doubts, all his worries, all his fears.

He doesn't belong here. This is no longer his home. He is a stranger. People who used to know him smile politely, but don't recognize him. His former bullies ask him to play soccer. His school is filled with children in a familiar uniform doing familiar things, but it is no longer familiar to him. His mother has re-appropriated his room, turning it into half study, half guest room, half storage space (and it's not even that big of a room). Her life goes on without him.

What he doesn't realize is that he has built a life without her, as well. Back in the states, he has Dalton. He has philosophical Nick, loud, fabulous Trent, steady David and quiet, deep Jeff. He has his over protective father. He has dreams and ambitions his mother has never seen, never heard about. He used to tell her everything.

He cries, because the tears come and he has no control over them. But, he tries to keep quiet. He doesn't want his mother to know about this. He doesn't want her to know just how screwed up he is. It's not her fault he's bad; it is his own.

She hears him, though, with her mother's intuition. She sits on the edge of his bed and rubs his back and asks him what's wrong.

He tells her, slowly, in bits and pieces, sobs and whimpers. She listens. She rubs his back. She waits.

When he is done, and had cried himself out, she draws him into a hug. "Things change, Bastian," she tells him quietly. "And sometimes it's hard. But, one thing will never change_, mon coeur_. I will always love you."


End file.
